


Sweating Through

by DoreyG



Category: NCIS
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Episode tie-in, Heat play, Hypochondriacs will sneeze, M/M, Temperature Play, sex on a boat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:51:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're on a boat and a virus may or may not be loose. What better way to calm DiNozzo down?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweating Through

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Temperature Play square of my Kink_Bingo. Set midway through season 5, episode 6 ("Chimera"). Because sex on a boat when a deadly virus may be loose is FUN.

The kiss is hot and pressing and ends only when Tony lets his head fall back against the metal wall with a dull _thunk_ , sweat staining his shirt in a way so obvious that it might as well have sirens and flashing lights.

“ _Now_ will you stop annoying me?” He huffs, continuing to hold Tony despite that – because the man is an irresistible weakness that he’ll never be able to let go of even when they’re old and grey and possibly addicted to apple mush, “I have _work_ to do, _important_ work.”

And for a moment, an overly positive moment, he thinks that that _might_ work and he _might_ be allowed to carry on in peace and quiet and relative calm-

“I don’t _feel_ well, Probie.”

…Damn.

It’s at times like this that he wishes that his ‘Probie’ status was just a bit more useful. As in: discouraging, easily ignorable, even _appalling_ to certain sweaty men trying to drag him closer and distract him and possibly get him killed by Gibbs before he can succumb to any known virus.

AKA: appalling to _the_ man, currently buzzing in his ear like a particularly needy wasp, “I feel hot.”

“Of course you do,” he grinds out: simmering and snappy, what a _wonderful_ combination, “I just _kissed_ you.”

…Oh God.

Oh God, that was probably the wrong thing to say.

Even if Tony, _bizarrely_ , isn’t taking the bait and grinning like a starving shark – is, instead, nuzzling even further in and shaking and looking a tiny bit terrified in a way that _almost_ excites his overprotective instincts (…Okay, that _does_ excite his overprotective instincts – trying to deny it would be useless), “I’m burning up, McGee.”

…His actual name. Huh, “I know.”

“I’m _dying_.”

“I- You’re _not_ ” …And damn those puppy dog eyes, and the use of his actual name, and his overprotective instincts going into hysterical overdrive to the point where he might actually explode himself for a bit of _relief_ , “Okay, okay - _fine_ : I _know_ , Tony.”

And is, in fact, already leaning in – pressing a soothing kiss against the man’s bottom lip in a desperate attempt to soothe and relax and… Other words of that vague description that he can’t quite think of right now.

And, yes, _damn_ Tony himself. He _still_ resembles a terrified horse when he finally draws back – shaking hands, sweat soaking through his shirt, eyes wide and dark and panicked and looking rather like they’re ( _maybe_ with Tony in tow) about to shoot up through the decks and throw themselves overboard any moment now. It’s like he’s actively _trying_ to look as unsexy (in need of protection) as possible.

“Do I have spots on my face?” Trying to act it too, judging by the tone of his voice, “I have spots on my face, don’t I?”

“You have _freckles_ ,” and he can only huff, catching Tony’s hands before they start ripping at his face, “I tried to kiss them all once, remember? You should, you alluded to it in front of Ducky and sent me into a coughing fit that lasted for _half an hour_.”

“…Oh, yeah. Good times,” and he’d feel more annoyed, honestly, but at least Tony’s face has gone briefly dreamy – as it always does when he’s thinking back to horrifically embarrassing times in the past, “and it didn’t last for half an hour.”

“It felt that long.”

“But it wasn’t that long, McGrumpy, because I only remember rubbing your back for two minutes.”

“…That doesn’t mean that it _stopped_ then, Tony.”

“Yeah, but it stopped then for me!”

…Forget damning the man, he might start actively _loathing_ him.

Especially as he returns to peering at his skin, like he expects bright purple spots to appear at any second and start spelling obscenities across his tender forearms, “that’s _definitely_ a spot.”

He can only sigh again, and resist the urge to do a bit of shaking because he couldn’t be a noble hero from the golden age of Hollywood even if he tried for a thousand years, “that’s a mole.”

“A mole?”

“ _Yes_ , I remember because… I have kissed far too many parts of your body and been reminded about it at humiliating moments.”

And suddenly Tony is smirking, that panicked look vanished from his eyes yet _again_ in a way so quick that it practically gives him whiplash, “do you really mind, McGroaning?”

He considers this for a second… “You have more moodswings than a teenage girl.”

Oh, and Tony now appears insulted by that. Joy! The only good thing is that it proves his point, “how many teenage girls have _you_ met?”

He can only sigh, _again_ , ““I could ask you the same question.”

“Sure you could” …Sigh _passionately_ , as Tony returns to scrutinizing his still not purple and pulsating arm, “I’m _sure_ that’s not an ordinary mole.”

…Oh _God_ (the guy has to start listening to him _someday_ ).

“Shut up,” he groans wearily, and very politely stops himself from taking a run at the wall and hoping that a long period of unconsciousness follows (there are better ways to deal with this, after all, even if they will probably lead to his brutal murder at the hands of Gibbs) “…Look: Will you stop panicking if I give you something else to think about for the next few minutes?”

“…Maybe.”

He arches his eyebrow.

“ _Maybe_ , Probie, anything is possible on a boat,” and he’d arch his eyebrow higher, but Tony does actually seem to be _dragging him in_ – panic covered, yet again, by a certain _look_ in his eyes that always seems to precede the both of them getting naked in several interesting positions “…Lube?”

“Back pocket,” he gives, trying not to _melt_ at that, “just dig a bit.”

“You bring lube on the _job_ , Probie?” And Tony sounds absolutely _delighted_ as he digs – great, he can already feel the next inopportune moment of embarrassment lurking over his shoulder as Tony’s (talented, not that he’s even _thinking_ that out loud) sweaty fingers slide around the tube, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I have you in me often enough, though,” he says as darkly as he can, which isn’t very darkly because Tony is _still_ somehow able to pinch him even while practically melting and holding on to a tube of very slippery lube, “It’s best to be prepared when your partner is a nymphomaniac.”

Tony actually looks _pleased_ about that, curse him, “so you admit it, then?”

“It’s nothing to be _proud_ of.”

“Yes it is,” the contradiction is simple, easy, given even as Tony fumbles hotly with the cap, “and a nymphomaniac doesn’t always require full penetration, McPedant, we could always try _frottage_.”

His eyebrow is arched again, he can’t seem to stop himself, “would frottage shut you up now?”

“…No.”

“Then get that lube open, get your trousers down and brace yourself against that wall.”

“Ah, McRomance!”

…He chooses to believe that his blood is simmering because of the pure _rage_ that is filling him, and not because of the heat or some insane sort of plague (drat, now Tony is getting _him_ started).

But Tony, to his credit and general shock, _does_ actually turn around after he’s handed the lube over and shucked his trousers and underwear down to his knees. Braces himself against the wall, nails lightly scratching over metal. Waits expectantly, with the promise of further panic in the stiff line of his back.

…Right.

Okay, best to soothe before the panic _bursts out_.

He almost never tops, no, but they’ve done this enough times now for him to know the basics. The lube is cool (blissfully cool… And, no, he’s _not_ going to stand there and rub cool lube into himself as Tony has a panic attack) on his fingers at first - but soon warms as he slides his hand between Tony’s cheeks, slips one slick finger into his hole and listens to the resulting groan with a certain sense of pride.

A second finger is soon added, after a few careful pumps. A third finger after that, when Tony is properly shuddering and his back has eased just a little.

And he _twists_ -

Ah, yes, that noise that Tony makes _does_ signify a certain level of readiness. He draws back, wriggles himself free from suddenly tight and sweaty trousers – easily coats his other hand with that still somehow cool (seriously, it must be made from penguins or something) lube and slides it over his cock: careful, slow, taking his time…

_Yes_ -

“McLoser,” and Tony is still panting, twisting back over his shoulder to send a _slightly_ annoyed look that might be because of the heat or _might_ be because his partner is getting rather too distracted by his own hand, “are you going to make me stop thinking or what?”

…Ah, and now he feels guilty. He loosens his grip a little, tries for a charming grin that simply turns out _awkward_ (and sweaty, which is even worse), “that depends.”

Tony looks sceptical, “on whether I drop dead in the next five minutes?”

…Ah.

Best to get moving, then.

“Sorry,” he moves in, carefully as not to slip on any sweat or rather voyeuristic rats. Braces one arm awkwardly against the wall and rests the other on Tony’s burning hot hip (in that certain slot, where it feels like it belongs in the soppier moments that he _always_ gets mocked for), “ready?”

“ _Duh_.”

And he slides in.

And, yes, it is hot. And is sweaty. And Tony _does_ still feel like he’s slowly melting through his shirt (now plastered between them)…

But it’s also glorious. And tight. And firm. And so _wonderful_ that he’s already shaking after only a second, already fisting his hand on Tony’s hip and hearing the resulting groan because he just can’t _stop_ \- it’s too hard, too close, and he could just stay in this position forever and not care a bit about Gibbs’ rage or Ziva’s laughter or the damned heat pressing in on all sides.

…He still tries a thrust, though, slow and careful.

And it’s, he won’t lie because he _can’t_ lie with Tony’s rumbled groan shaking through the both of them, pretty easy to fall into a rhythm from there.

Thrust.

Shudder.

Thrust.

_Gasp_.

Thrust.

His teeth digging into the back of Tony’s neck, leaving red marks that’ll be a _bitch_ to cover up after they’re both dressed again.

Thrust.

His feet sliding on the floor, desperately trying to gain traction…

_Thrust_.

Ah, _fuck_.

_Thrust_.

And he’s coming, a second after Tony. His hand sliding sweatily down the wall, his other hand clenching hard enough to leave bruises, his forehead dropping to Tony’s back and not even caring that his shirt is completely _soaked_.

They pant together for a moment.

…Tony remains silent besides that.

And he starts to smile, secretly. Starts to draw back, slowly. Starts to _hope_ , almost desperately because Tony is _silent_ and that almost _never_ happens-

And Tony is staring at his arm again, joy, “I still don’t feel well, Probie. And I really do think that that spot is turning green.”

…It takes all of his self control not to headbutt something.


End file.
